


Stupid F*cking Therapy

by GlitchTheRoboticShadow, ianmickey4ever



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Abuse, Amputee, Angst, Custody Battle, Family Fluff, Gallavich, Gen, Lawyer, Shameless Smut, therapist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-23 01:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3750058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitchTheRoboticShadow/pseuds/GlitchTheRoboticShadow, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianmickey4ever/pseuds/ianmickey4ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Mickey Milkovich is a lawyer. When stress and anxiety start to get to him, and affect his work performance, he's ordered to go to therapy, where he meets the redheaded, green-eyed therapist, Ian Gallagher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Call Me Ian

Mickey did not want to fucking be there.  Thanks to his stupid law firm, he was being forced to go to therapy, due to his "high stress levels and constant ability to throw the office into disarray."  
  
Green Rose Therapy Center, wasn't an odd sight to Mickey.  Often his traumatized clients would go there to help recover and it was only right across the street from his law firm.  He gritted his teeth and straightened out his jacket before pushing the double-wide glass doors open.  
  
The receptionist's head perked up when Mickey stepped into the waiting room.  The place was big. Fancy.  And over-the-fucking-top.  Mickey had never actually stepped into the building, he never had the need to, but there he was, a small speck in the giant room.  There were chairs lining the tall walls; a carpet stretched down the long strip of floor, parting only to go around the receptionist's desk.  
  
The ceiling was way higher than necessary (just like at his office) and there was a giant-ass chandelier hanging above it all.  Mickey mentally rolled his eyes and internally groaned at the extravagance of a place where mental people go to "feel better."  It was even worse, now that Mickey was considered one of those people.  
  
He stalked over to the desk, rubbing his thumb over his chin as he did so.  Usually, Mickey did his best to hide his  _FUCK U-UP_ tattoos on his knuckles, they really weren't accepted in his line of work.  But today, he decided to fuck it and mess with the pretentious assholes who worked at the high-end therapy center.  
  
The receptionist's eyes stalled over Mickey's knuckles, before he tore them away and looked Mickey in the eye.  "How may I help you, sir?" The man asked, his tone friendly but wary at the same time.  Mickey could swear the guy had one hand under the desk, probably ready to push a panic-button in case Mickey decided to rough him up.  
  
Mickey dropped his hand from his chin, the action caught the eye of the receptionist, who chewed his lip nervously.  They clearly didn't deal with  _punks_  like Mickey often.  "I have an appointment." Mickey said tersely, as if that was all the explanation needed.  
  
The receptionist raised an eyebrow, obviously expecting Mickey to elaborate further.  When he didn't, the man cleared his throat, "Name please?" He said, trying to sound confident, which amused Mickey.  
  
One of the good things about being from the South-side, was that Mickey knew he could take any one of these pussies with barely any effort.  He sighed exasperatedly, "Mickey Milkovich." He knew he was getting annoyed too easily, but it wasn't hard to get pissed about something he didn't even want to do in the first place.  After all, he was a Milkovich, and Milkoviches don't go to fucking therapy.  
  
The receptionist typed his name in, side-eyeing Mickey as he did so.  After a second, he spoke, "Here we are.  Mr. Milkovich, here for an appointment with Dr. Gallagher." He said, clearly relieved that Mickey actually had an appointment, rather than him just being some thug who thought it'd be fun to mess up some scrawny shit-brains.  
  
Gallagher.  Why did that name sound familiar?  Maybe a client mentioned their therapist's name?  Eh, it didn't matter.  Mickey took a seat in one of the chair (which was surprisingly comfortable.)  
  
Mickey pretended not to notice the constant glances shot his way from the receptionist.  After a few minutes, a couple walked into the building.  Mickey didn't know they dealt with couples' therapy here.  He found entertainment in their fidgety-ness.  There was very obviously tension between the two, and the woman clearly did not want to be there.  
  
The man tried to put a hand comfortingly on her knee, but she swatted it away, not even glancing at her boyfriend or husband or whatever the fuck he was.  An old woman walked out of the nearest door, her eyes red from crying.   She took a seat next to Mickey.  He could hear how shaky her breath was, and it kind of annoyed him that there were at least ten other seats and she chose to sit right next to him.  
  
She took a few deep breaths before holding up a shaky hand and sliding the golden wedding-band off of her ring finger.  Mickey was so distracted by her, that he almost didn't notice his name being called by the receptionist.  
  
Mickey pushed himself up from the chair and walked up to the desk, leaning on it slightly as he waited for the receptionist to notice his presence.  "Oh.  Mr. Milkovich, Dr. Gallagher is waiting for you in that-" he pointed his pen at the door behind Mickey, "room.  Just head right in to get started."  
  
Mickey walked up to the door that had a golden plaque on it reading, " Dr. Ian Gallagher's office"  He inhaled an irritated and calming breath, as he twisted the handle and stepped into the office, he probably should have knocked but he didn't really care; he was gonna go to the required sessions and then get-the-fuck-out-of-there.  
  
He almost paused when he saw the therapist sitting in his lounge chair, examining a file.  He had fire red hair and deep green eyes that scimmed over the paper quicker than Mickey thought possible (was he even actually reading the thing?)  
  
And holy fuck; his body.  He was wearing a plaid button-up shirt with the sleeves folded to his elbows.  It was just tight enough to show a small outline of his arm muscles and there was a slight tug on the buttons across his chest.  Mickey unconsciously licked his bottom lip as he closed the door behind him and took a seat on the couch opposite his therapist.  
  
"Mr. Milkovich, here for work induced stress and anxiety," The guy said. Mickey rolled his eyes at that.  It was not just work that was causing him to pull his fucking hair out. "You can just take a seat on the-" Gallagher looked up from the paper and smiled at the already sitting Mickey in front of him.  "Nevermind, I see you've already made yourself comfortable." He closed the file and set it on the desk next to him.    
  
Mickey suddenly felt very aware of the fact that he was wearing old and worn clothes.  His stupid dryer had decided to break, leaving him with a heap of wet clothes, that he had to string up all around his apartment.  Now, he was stuck wearing a black tee, a sweatshirt, and freaking sweatpants.  
  
"I'm Ian Gallagher, your therapist.  I was told that your behavior at work has been wavering, so anything you feel you need to talk about, I am here to listen.  This is about you getting all the crap off your chest, so you can clear your head and get back in the game.  Don't worry, though, there is full doctor, patient, confidentiality." He explained, smiling lopsidedly like a puppy.  
  
Mickey wasn't sure how to respond to that.  He wasn't about to spill his guts to some stranger, who would put it on the record, no matter how much he claimed it was just between them.  Dr. Gallagher grabbed the clipboard from his desk and clicked his pen, setting it at the ready to write.  "Why don't you start with what's been stressing you out at work?" Gallagher prompted, nodding his head for Mickey to explain his problems.

"Nothing.  I'm fine." Mickey said simply, shrugging.  It was half true.  He had some shit going on, but most if it had fuck-all to do with work.  Dr. Gallagher sighed and handed Mickey a piece of paper from the file he had previously placed on his desk.  Mickey reached out to grab it.  Gallagher's eyes found Mickey's tattooed knuckles.  He was expecting a retraction or sneer, but instead, Gallagher just smiled amusedly  at the profanity and leaned back in his chair once Mickey had the paper.  
  
Mickey scanned over the general contents of the paper, and found that it was basically a list of all the times he fucked up at work.  He groaned in aggravation and crumpled the paper, before tossing it to his side.  "Don't  worry, I've got copies." Gallagher said with a cheeky grin.  
  
Mickey glared at him with such fire, that the therapist's skin could have melted from his bones.  Mickey gritted his teeth and mindlessly rubbed his thumb over the palm of his hand, slowly smoothing out his irrational anger.  It was true, he had messed up quite a few times at work, but he wasn't in the mood to be level-headed about anything at the moment.  As the saying goes: He had bigger fish to fry.  
  
"Listen, we aren't going to get through all the messed up shit in my head, in the assigned sessions-" Mickey started.  
  
"Ah, so you want to schedule more sessions?"  Gallagher chimed in.  Mickey rolled his eyes.  Was this guy really a professional?  "No, I just think we'd both enjoy ourselves more, if we pretended we had these meetings, but never had to actually fucking talk to each other."  He said, in his best business man voice.  To be honest, Mickey could list a few things he'd enjoy doing with Dr. Gallagher; none of which involved talking.  
  
The therapist propped his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together, "Mr. Milkovich, I've dealt with this before.  The  _too cool to go to therapy_  type.  I hate to break it to you, but there isn't anything special, or tough about you."   
  
Mickey raised his eyebrows at that.  Nothing tough about him?  The guy who had  _FUCK U-UP_  on his knuckles?  He let out a small, irritated laugh, "Really now?  I'm tougher than your skinny ass." He retorted.  Gallagher was clearly amused by this and tried to stifle a laugh and bite back a grin, which only annoyed Mickey further.  
  
"You're right.  I'm sorry, you're clearly very tough.  It's in both our best interests if we don't start an argument," He gave Mickey a soft smile, "Why don't we just get through this session, and see how you feel afterward?" The redhead suggested.  
  
Mickey knew he had no other choice, but he pretended to toss around the idea in his head.  He licked his lips and fixed Gallagher with a stern gaze, "Fine." He caved, leaning back on the couch.  The session continued and Mickey reluctantly told his therapist about the stress he'd been getting from work.  He kept his personal life locked tight in a safe, back at his apartment.

Mickey felt odd, basically complaining about work.  He felt like a whiny baby and he was careful to focus on just work overload rather than complaining about bitchy people around the office, just in case they somehow found out.  oddly enough, most of the conversation was held up by Gallagher.  Somehow Mickey managed to stick almost entirely, to one sentence responses.  Ian Gallagher had to coax most of the stuff out of him, because Mickey was stubborn and did not want to talk about his feelings.  
  
By the time the session was over, Mickey started to open up a bit more (Gallagher was just that good.)  Mickey had divulged more than he had expected to when he first arrived an hour earlier.  If he was being completely honest, it was nice to have someone listen, he was usually pushed to the back burner, or he just kept everything bottled inside.  Of course he had his sister, Mandy, but he still kept his emotional spew mostly to himself.  
  
He stood with Dr. Gallagher, who escorted him to the door.  He turned to face his redheaded companion, and found that there was very little space between the two.  He gulped a little and took the fraction of a step backward that he could.  Gallagher smiled down at him, his head tilted just the slightest bit.  " 'til next time, Gallagher." Mickey said through a dry mouth.  His therapist was way too close for comfort.  
  
"Just call me Ian." The therapist said, leaning forward.  Mickey froze.  What the fuck was he doing?  When Ian grabbed the door handle and opened it, Mickey let out a relieved sigh, that accidentally hit Ian in the face, but he didn't seem to mind, as he held the door open for Mickey.  
  
Mickey cleared his throat and nodded his head, before stepping out of the office.  As he was making his way toward the exit, he heard, "Wait." Mickey stopped in his tracks, only a couple feet from the redhead, he turned to find a hopeful glint in the guy's eyes. "Are you coming back for another session?" Ian asked.  
  
Mickey sighed and stared into those annoyingly green eyes, "I dunno, man-" He started, just to be interrupted by his therapist, "I really think it'll help.  What d'you say, Mr. Milkovich?" Ian was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet, and Mickey, (as stupid as it was) was finding it hard to say  _fuck no_.   
  
So, instead, he said, "Mickey." Avoiding the question and walking away before his therapist could say anything else.  He could practically feel the dope's eyes on him as he left and boy did that make him feel good.


	2. Aunt Mandy

Mickey groaned at the increasingly expensive dryers listed on his laptop. Sure, he had a decent amount of money, being a lawyer and all, but that didn't mean he'd go around spending it like there was no tomorrow. Besides, he had plans to buy a house and last he heard, houses were expensive.

 

He finally settled on a fancy dryer with all kinds of buttons and knobs, he figured that if he was going to buy a new one, might as well be one that'll last. After punching in his credit card number, cringing as he hit enter, knowing that he'd just spent a drastic amount of money on something that _dries clothes_ , he shut his laptop and leaned back into the couch, trying not to let the new dent in his bank account effect his mood.  Now, he only had to deal with hang drying clothes for two more days, (yay, express shipping!) Lines were strung across his small apartment, drying his shirts and pants and undergarments. He would take it all to the dry cleaner's, but that seemed unnecessary considering the free string that was laying about in one of his desk drawers. He only used the dry cleaner's for his work clothes, he probably wouldn't even do that if they weren't suits.

 

Mickey jumped off the couch as he heard a knock at the door. He straightened out his shirt and brushed a hand through his hair in a feeble attempt to tame it. He knew that Yev was staying the weekend, so the apartment was neat and he had put a password on all the TV channels he thought unwise to let his nine-year-old son watch. He and Svetlana had never settled on a regular schedule for visits and sleepovers, neither one of them wanting to drag it into court, so they decided to just wing it and settle it as the months went by. Mickey regretted that decision, with every fiber of his being. Svetlana had gone and found herself a rich-ass doctor husband, whom apparently was offered a better paying job in Seattle, meaning that they wanted to sweep Yev up and cart him across the country, never to be seen by Mickey again. He didn't understand why the shit load of money the guy was making now, wasn't good enough.

 

They had a big house with a fucking maid, for god's sake! Trying to get more money at this point, was just selfish. Of course, there was no way Mickey was going to let them take Yev, just like that. And so the fierce custody battle raged on. Mickey probably wouldn't even get to see his son if Yev didn't nag Svetlana about it. The woman was a cold hearted bitch, but she loved her son, and if seeing his dad made him happy, then that's what would happen.

 

And so, Mickey quickly grabbed his - still wet - underwear from the line in the living room, tossing it into the hamper in his room, before opening the door to a scowling Svetlana and a giddy Yev, whom tackled Mickey in a hug. They hadn't seen each other for two weeks, so excitement was high to finally get some quality time together. "I'm going to go put my stuff in my room!" Yev said, about to race off into the apartment, but Svetlana grabbed his arm and gingerly pulled him back.

 

She crouched down to his height, "You be good. Brush teeth before bed. Not too many sweets." She said, smiling gently. Yev gave her a hug, "Will do, mom." He said, before darting out of sight, giggling like a chipmunk who'd had one too many redbulls. Svetlana's face turned stony as she rose back to her regular height, which was - unfortunately - taller than Mickey and the heels didn't help.

 

"I pick up Monday at Seven." She said, before turning around and walking away. Mickey rolled his eyes and closed the door. He found Yev in his bedroom, unpacking his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles duffel bag.

 

"What d'you want for lunch?" Mickey asked, leaning on the doorframe. Yev jumped up from the floor and copied his dad by leaning on the wall, "I'm thinkin' mac n cheese." He answered, thoughtfully, stroking his chin with his thumb.

 

Mickey smiled and ruffled Yev's hair, "Sounds good, kid. With broccoli?"

 

Yev nodded, "As long as it's not brussel sprouts." He scrunched up his nose at the thought, as he walked passed Mickey, into the kitchen. Mickey followed him and grabbed a box of mac n cheese out of the cabinet.

 

Yev hopped on the counter as Mickey put the water to boil, "So, what's new with you, dad?" He asked, eating dry noodles from the box. Mickey took a seat next to him, "Well, this annoying kid just ran into my apartment and is now eating my food." He said, grabbing the box from Yev and eating some of the noodles himself. Yev rolled his eyes and tried to take the box back from his dad, but Mickey kept him at arms length, both laughing, noodles spilling over the counter. "Dad! This counts as child abuse!" Yev complained through giggles, clawing at Mickey's shoulder.

 

"Time out, ya dork." Mickey said, as his phone buzzed in his pocket. Yev huffed and crossed his arms, but stopped his attempts at assault. Mickey answered the phone, still holding the box away from his son. 

 

 _"Is he there?"_ The voice squealed through the phone. Mickey smiled and held his cell away from his ear, _"Yes, he's sitting right here."_ He answered, lightly shoving Yev on the arm, who did the same back.

 

 _"Can I come over?"_ Mandy asked, but Mick knew it wasn't much of a question as it was a warning. _"Sure, Mands."_ He answered, followed by a squeal from his sister.

 

 _"Good, 'cause I'm already outside of your apartment."_ She said, Mickey sighed in response. Of course she was. _"Now let me in, before I break down your flimsy door!"_ She demanded and the line went dead, followed by pounding on the front door.

 

Mickey got down from the counter and begrudgingly opened the door, Yev still in the kitchen, probably eating the dry noodles. Mandy stood with plastic bags slung over her arms, her black hair pulled into a messy bun, her grin was absolutely blinding. She shoved past Mick, "Where's my favorite nephew?" She called. Mickey heard the thump of Yev getting down from the counter and then he skirted around the corner, almost crashing into Mandy. "You're here!" Yev yelled, tackling Mandy in a hug, which she embraced happily. "Wow, Mandy, ya fall off the face of the earth 'til my son comes 'round." Mickey teased, smiling at the scene taking place in front of him.

 

"That's because I like Yev more than you." She retorted, sticking out her tongue.

 

"Whoa, what's with the new decor?" She asked, lightly tugging on one of the strings hung across the apartment. "Dryer decided to break. Just ordered a new one." He answered.

 

They walked over to the living room, Mandy and Yev chattering about this and that, as they sat down on the sofa. "I'm gonna go boil the noodles. If there are any left." Mickey said, with a pointed look at Yev, who hid his face and focused intently on Mandy. Mickey could hear them giggling as he poured the box into the boiling water. When he walked back out into the living room, he saw two big stacks of candy. "Mandy, you tryin' to give him diabetes?" Mickey asked, throwing his hands up in the air. "No, I'm just giving the kid the good stuff you never do, but don't worry, I brought something for you, too." Mandy replied, tossing a snickers bar to mickey.

 

"Fine, but you can't have any until after lunch, Yev" Mickey said. "But dad, Aunt Mandy brought it all here for me to eat! You have to let me have a little bit, it's just cruel otherwise!" Yev replied back to his father. Mickey sent a death glare Mandy's way. "He is right Mickey, I did bring it all here for him to eat, you have to let him have some of it," Mandy winked at her brother. "You wanna see your nephew again?" Mick gave her a pointed look, so she backed down, knowing when she was defeated. "Right I thought so. Yev you can't have any until after lunch, which should be any minute now, so come on." Mickey told Yev sternly.

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

 

After dinner, which consisted of chicken, potatoes, and green beans, the three Milkoviches were watching a movie in the living room. "Yev, its time to get ready for bed. Go brush your teeth, use the bathroom, and put on your pajamas," Mickey said. "But dad! Mandy just got here!" Yev replied. Mickey gave him his signature look, which Yev knew meant that his dad wasn't playing anymore. It took time and dedication for Mickey to master, but he'd managed to perfect it. Yev groaned as he slipped off the couch and slumped into his bedroom, he grabbed his pajamas and went to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind him, the faint slamming of drawers wafted into the living room. Mick rolled his eyes, but ignored his son's small acts of rebellion. With Mandy's help, he cleaned up the mountain of candy wrappers that had accumulated on the coffee table and floor.

 

"I'm done." Yev said, as he walked out of the bathroom, his mood having changed from pissy, to moderately tired, or at least too tired to give Mickey an attitude. "Good, let's go then." Mickey said as he lead Yev to his room.

 

Mickey tucked him in. "Did you have a good day?" He questioned. "Yeah, I'm glad I got to see Aunt Mandy," Yev yawned and his eyelids drooped, covering half his eyes, "Can we have pancakes for breakfast?" He asked, rolling onto his side and tucking his hand under his cheek. "Of course we can, wouldn't be a Sunday morning without them, now would it?" Yev shook his head slightly, before falling asleep, softly snoring. Mickey gave him a kiss on the forehead and left the room, flipping off the light as he did.

 

When Mickey returned to the living room, where he saw Mandy sitting on the couch with a look that Mick knew was trouble. "What's wrong?" He asked, wary and nervous about his sister's sudden change in demeanor.

 

"Nothing." She said, glancing up at her brother. Mickey gave her the, _no bullshit_ look, and she lolled her head in exasperation, "Okay, that's not _entirely_ , true." Mickey took a seat next to her, knowing this was going to be a _sit down_ , kind of talk. Mandy sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, "I got some uh," She glanced at Yev's bedroom door, checking to make sure he couldn't hear them, "I got some shit goin' on." Her voice cracked, which was highly unusual for his little sister, so he knew it wasn't a joking matter.

 

"I uh, I know you got a lot on your plate right now. Like, a hell of a lot," She let out a weak chuckle, accompanied by a sniffle, "But, could I stay here?" She sounded hesitant and maybe even _scared?_ Mickey knew his little sister and she didn't get scared easily, so the situation put his nerves on end. He wrapped an arm around her and squeezed, in what he hoped was a comforting way. "Of course you can, Mands." He reassured.

 

She let out a sigh of relief, "It'll only be for a couple days, tops." She said, as if Mickey would actually throw her out. There was a long stretch of silence, before Mickey asked, "You, uh, wanna talk about it?" He was hesitant to push. When Mandy didn't respond, he figured she wasn't ready to open up about whatever the fuck had happened. It was only when he felt a warm puddle on his arm, that he knew she had fallen asleep. He internally groaned and gently moved, laying Mandy on the couch. He grabbed a couple blanket from his closet and tossed them over her. He was worried about whatever had caused her to come running his way. But, it was comforting to know that if she were ever in trouble, she'd go to him. At least he could help her when she was staying at his place, rather than wherever the fuck she decided to stay at this point in time.

 

He'd talk to her in the morning, but for the mean time, he was fucking exhausted. He barely managed to stay awake long enough to brush his teeth and strip down to his boxers and a T-shirt. He flopped into bed, not even pulling the covers over himself, before closing his eyes and drifting off. "What a shit show." was his last thought before he fell asleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there wasn't any Ian/Mickey interaction this chapter, but there will be in the next one! We'll try to keep a regular schedule of posting on the weekends, hopefully sooner rather than later. Anyway, hope you're enjoying =D


	3. Fuck you

"I can't believe you wanted pancakes two breakfasts in a row," Mickey said, serving pancakes onto Yev's plate, who doused them in syrup and immediately started scarfing them down. Mickey laughed at his squirrel faced son, "Scratch that, I can totally believe it and the chocolate chips don't surprise me either." It was Monday morning and Svetlana would be there any minute to pick Yev up for school. The weekend had flown by and Mickey wasn't prepared for another shitty week. He had another therapy session that afternoon after work and he was _not_ looking forward to it.  Sure, he didn't mind having to look at a hot guy for an hour, the problem was that the guy wanted him to talk.  He didn't understand how therapy in any way, was supposed to help his nerves.  It's not like going to therapy was going to get him full custody of his son and without that, Mickey wasn't going to relax, no matter how many feelings he spewed all over the red head.

 

"You all packed?" Mickey asked, taking a seat next to Yev, preparing his own breakfast. Yev swallowed his pancakes and frowned, "Yeah," He muttered, clearly not ready to leave.  It wasn't that Svetlana was a bad mother, because as much as Mickey hated her, she really was good to Yev, but she coddled him, which was one of the reasons why Yev enjoyed staying at Mickey's so much.  He treated Yev like a human with opinions and a brain, rather than a small baby that needed constant supervision.  Mickey heard a thump and then a groan, before Mandy slumped into the kitchen, sitting down next to Yev.  Her hair was disheveled and she still had a blanket wrapped around her, "I can't believe you guys get up at this ungodly hour." She grumbled, grabbing a pancake off the stack and taking a bite.

 

Mickey had asked Mandy about why she needed a place to stay, but she said she didn't want to talk about it and Mickey wasn't going to force her to.  So, it remained a mystery to him, why she was staying at his place, but she hadn't gotten in the way at all, if anything, she was a help.  Mickey still worried about her, though.  She wasn't one to ask for help, so when she did, it was a clear sign that whatever it was, was serious.

 

"It's almost seven! Ain't my fault you're used to sleeping until noon." Mickey retorted, which elicited a glare from Mandy, but she softened when she looked at Yev, "You all ready to go?" She asked, ruffling the kid's hair.  Instead of responding, Yev just grimaced and took an angry bite of his pancake.  "I'll take that as a no, then." She said, retracting her hand.  A knock was heard from the door and Yev froze, his fork in midair.  He set down his silverware and pushed back his chair, if not a little forcefully, and slumped into his room to grab his bag.  Mickey got up and answered the door.  Svetlana and her husband _Richard,_ were standing arm-in-arm.  Svetlana was a few inches shorter than him in her heels and her hair was pulled into a ponytail, her purse slung over her right arm.  "Mickey." Richard nodded.

 

"Dick." Mickey responded.  

 

"Where is Yev?" Svetlana demanded, one eyebrow - permanently - arched in disapproval.

 

"He's grabbing his stuff." Mickey answered, not realizing that he was scowling at the couple.  It was a complete shit show.  Svetlana shouldn't have even been able to fight for custody of Yev, she was an illegal immigrant, but Rich-Ass-Richard, pulled a few strings and got her a green card.  With money, came power. Yes, Mickey had money, but not as much as the duo standing in front of him, wearing Gucci and a Rolex.  Even though Mickey had it good, they had it better, which meant they were probably going to win custody and Mickey found it hard to be civil to the people trying to take away his son.

 

Yev appeared around the corner, his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle duffle bag, slung over his shoulder, his head bowed.  "Come on, you'll be late for school." Svetlana said, smiling at Yev, who turned and gave his dad a hug.  Mickey embraced him and kissed the top of his head, "Did you say goodbye to aunt Mandy?" He asked and Yev nodded, "Okay. Be good, alright? Don't wanna hear about you beating up all the other kids at school."

Yev chuckled, "Promise," He said, "Bye, dad." He walked over to his mom and they left.

 

-

 

 

Ian felt a chill run through the room, as he hunched over his desk, his cheek squished against a mountain of papers. He'd had a late night because he had to talk one of his clients out of harming herself. It wasn't too often that that would happen, but Ian would never tell someone that they needed to schedule an appointment when they wanted to take a razor to their wrists. And that's how he ended up falling asleep in his office, his files probably ruined from the drool he could feel on his cheek. He shivered and lifted his head, his neck sore and rigid from sleeping at an odd angle. "Looks like someone had a rough night." Ian's coworker, Amora, said, standing in the doorway, an eyebrow arched at him. She held two cups of coffee in her hands and Ian had to restrain himself from groveling at her feet, so that he could get that morning boost he so desperately needed.

"Yeah," He yawned and wiped the drool from his face, "Confidential and all that." He couldn't pry his eyes away from the paper cups. Amora laughed and sat one of them down in front of Ian. He gladly took it and gulped down a couple of chugs, burning his throat in the process. Amora opened the blinds in his office, stinging his eyes, making him squint. "Jeez, warn a guy." He complained, no real bite in his tone. He checked the watch on his wrist: fifteen past seven. He usually woke up at six, but he'd stayed up until three, trying to calm his client down enough to put self-harm out of the question. He'd succeeded, but was now ready to collapse into a pile of goop.

"Oh, I see how it is," Amora placed a hand on her chest, pretending to be offended. She scoffed, "I bring you the miracle that is a hot cup of coffee, three sugars, with cream, but do I get a thank you? No."

Ian rolled his eyes and smiled at her, which she reciprocated, taking a seat in the chair across from him. "Anyway, wanna grab some breakfast?" She asked, taking a sip of her coffee. As if on cue, Ian's stomach made the mating sound of a dragon and he had to push down the blush trying to crawl up his neck. Food sounded like a godsend at that particular moment. What he wouldn't give for a stack of pancakes with a bucket of bacon.

Amora smirked at him, "I'll take that as a yes. Where d'you wanna go?" She asked, setting her coffee down and pulling her thick black hair into a ponytail. Anywhere. Ian wanted to go anywhere that had food. His hunger had rapidly grown in the few seconds it had taken Amora to ask that question. He suddenly felt like his stomach was going to eat itself. He thought it was ridiculous that his body demanded such attention after only a short period of time without food. But really, Ian's whole morning was out of whack; he hadn't gone on his usual morning run, he hadn't had an egg sandwich for breakfast, and he hadn't even slept in his own fucking bed. Or even a bed for that matter. He stood up abruptly, coffee in hand, "That cafe right around the corner sounds great, let's get going so we can be back before my next session." He tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice, but to no avail. His next session wasn't for two hours, but he would be dead in less than thirty minutes if he didn't get some - much deserved - protein. _  
_

Amora quickly caught on to the redhead's distress and gave no protests to the idea. She looped her arm in his and they walked out of his office and into the lobby.  Ian had to persuade his legs to keep at a leisurely pace to match Amora's, who was walking slower than usual, probably just to annoy him.  They were about to exit the building, when they came to a halt from someone calling for them to stop.  Ian looked over his shoulder, to see Gunnar, the usual receptionist, quickly packing up some files, before slinging his jacket on and jogging over to them.  He had what was commonly referred to as,  _a swimmer's body,_ meaning he was as fit as they came, standing at an astounding 6'2, with a six-pack that was outlined by his white, button-up shirt.  His blond hair was slightly overgrown, which combined with his tan skin, reminded Ian of the stereotypical _surfer dude._  If he had blue eyes, it would have been perfect. He could've auditioned for Baywatch.  But alas, he had hazel brown ones, much to Ian's disappointment. He would've loved to see Gunnar try and fail to be a suave motherfucker, running down the beach to save some poor soul from drowning.

Gunnar squeezed between them, unlinking their elbows, as he wrapped an arm over each of their shoulders.  "Off to get some food?" He questioned, smiling at them with his obnoxiously white and perfect teeth. "Yeah, we're going to that cafe around the corner, The Red Cafe, or something." Ian answered, shifting uncomfortably at Gunnar's touch. They left the building, entering into the somewhat chilly streets.  The sky was cloudy and there was a brisk wind, but nothing too unbearable, since they were all wearing jackets.

"More like the Caucasian Cafe," Amora snorted, shoving her hand into her pocket and taking a sip of coffee, "I still have yet to see anyone -present company excluded- at that cafe, who isn't a white, teenage hipster. If one more person takes a picture of their latte, I might actually kill someone."

Gunnar squeezed her with his right arm, "Oh come on, they aren't that bad." He smirked at her, to which she rolled her eyes.

"'course they're not to you. You're practically one of them. You youths today with your excessive use of scarves, even in the summer, and your annoyingly large glasses.  Who actually needs a frame that big? Honestly, I could project a fucking movie on those things." Amora retorted, unnecessarily irritated at the teens that didn't actually bother her existence. Gunnar was the youngest of the trio, at the ripe age of twenty-three, which left Amora with the excuse to act like a grumpy old person, the kind that yelled at kids to _get off their lawn,_ and sat menacingly in rocking chairs on their porch all day, just watching the neighborhood kids, waiting for one of them to accidentally kick a ball into their yard.

"Yeah, yeah, play nice, grandma. Let's not forget who's gonna choose your retirement home." Gunnar said, hip checking the black haired girl next to him.  She scrunched up her nose and took a sip of her coffee.

"Ew, no way in hell am I ever going to one of those nasty-ass homes for the old farts, too far gone to realize that they were being ditched to die with a group of old prunes that smelled potently of old spice and cat litter," She grimaced, "I'm going to die riding a barrel down a waterfall.  No time to mope that way. I'll be filled with terror and adrenaline until  _boom,_ I'm dead. No profound last words, or dramatic 'drifting off' scene where the camera zooms-in way too close to my face."

"I'm glad you've thought this much into it." Ian said, rolling his eyes.  His stomach grumbled and Gunnar laughed, shaking him, "Someone's hungry." He said, stating the obvious.  Ian ignored the comment and unhooked Gunnar's arm from around his neck. He wasn't angry, but the touching was making him a little uneasy.  Ever since Ian made the mistake of sleeping with the blond, the guy had kept flirting with him and followed him around like a puppy.  He felt bad for him, he never meant to continue after the initial night. Hell, he hadn't even meant for  _that_ to happen, but the kid wouldn't leave him alone and Ian wasn't going to tell him to fuck off. They were friends before they slept together, so it wouldn't be right to just suddenly abandon him, but things weren't the same. Gunnar clearly wanted more, which Ian was unwilling to give.

It was a common thought, that since Ian was a therapist, he had wisdom that rivaled that of Yoda's, but it was actually quite the opposite. He was an impulsive twit that did stupid shit, like sleep with his, younger, naive, coworker.  He was just  better at giving advice, than actually receiving it.  He found it almost laughable that people  _paid_ to have him tell them what to do, since he wasn't exactly a poster child, but he figured that his past was also sort of a testament to how much he had overcome to be at this point in his life.  _  
_

Gunnar seemed a little miffed at the sudden retraction, but soon hid his frown, as they entered the cafe.  A warm breeze rushed over Ian and he sighed in relief. His stomach lurched at the smell of sausage and bacon that wafted from the kitchen. A smiling, brown haired, waitress, led them to their table in the front corner of the cafe.

 

-

 

The breakfast had been thoroughly awkward, but luckily, Gunnar sat across from Ian, rather than next to him, where he almost definitely would have groped Ian's thigh, as he had so many times before.  Amora kept the conversation going. Ian found himself to be unusually quiet, which he was sure Amora picked up on, but she didn't say anything. She just continued her playful banter with Gunnar.  Thankfully for Ian, they were served quickly and ate at that pace as well, which meant he was back in his office in time to take a power nap. 

He lasted through his morning appointments, taking a quick nap instead of having a lunch break.  Unfortunately, his energy from said naps, didn't last long, because he was startled awake by the door to his office swinging open.  He didn't even remember falling asleep. One minute he was filling out paperwork and the next he was (once again) slumped over his desk, drooling profusely. The crick in his neck was probably permanent at that point. He looked drearily at the person, to find that it was a client. He promptly wiped the saliva from his face and groggily smiled at the man, who was giving him an odd look, but smirking nonetheless.

Ian knew Mickey would come back, he was fairly good at reading people and the Milkovich had never denied that he would. Plus, it was court mandatory, so, he didn't really have much choice in the matter.  He gestured for the man to take a seat on the couch, which he did. Ian blinked the sleep from his eyes, "So, Mr. Milkovich, you decided to come back." Ian said, grabbing a file from his desk, which he realized was covered in drool, so he just dropped it back down, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"It's not like I wanted to. I'm doin' this 'cause I care about my son." Mickey said, if not a little defensively.  Ian smiled at that. Who the fuck didn't find a caring father adorable and kinda hot? After all, it's not like Ian ever had that, which left him prone to gawking at it.  He was surprised at the openness of Mickey, whom he thought would never even mention his offspring.

"Well then, where would you like to start?" Ian involuntarily yawned, covering his mouth as he did so, "Sorry, late night."

Mickey nodded in understanding, eyeing Ian curiously, "Well, uh, it's just the usual shit at work. Don't really have anything new to complain about." He shrugged.  Ian held down another yawn and furrowed his brow at the Milkovich, "It's not complaining, Mr. Milkovich-"

"Mickey."

"Right, well, Mickey, therapy isn't complaining, it's about getting all the stress out of your system and working through your problems." Mickey raised an eyebrow at him, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Okay, it is _partially_ about complaining, but that'st just to get the shit off your chest, which is necessary." Ian didn't usually swear, but his sleep deprived brain didn't give a fuck, especially when the other man had profanity permanently inked on his knuckles, so it wasn't like he had sensitive ears. 

"Okay, that doesn't change the fact that I don't have anything to say." Mickey said casually, as he rested his ankle on his knee and spread his arms over the back of the sofa.  Ian sighed and accidentally let a yawn slip, "You're not making this easy on yourself, Mickey."

Mickey rubbed a hand over his face, "Listen, man. I don't have anything against you," Ian could've swore the guy's eyes scanned his body intently, but that might have just been wishful thinking combined with being tired, "but, I don't really do this shit. I got it pretty good, ya know, besides my bitch-ass ex and her new husband trying to steal my son," he paused, seemingly regretting his decision to talk about them, "My point is, I don't need this. I'm not messed up in the brain, I know what I'm doing and I know how to handle my own ass." 

That made Ian's eyes quickly drop to his patient's waist, before swiftly moving to look at the wall instead.  There was no denying that Mickey was hot, unfairly hot, in Ian's opinion. But there was no way in hell that he would or could sleep with a client. That would just lead to all sorts of problems that he really didn't care to think about.  But, that didn't stop the little scene that made its way through Ian's brain, about how well Mickey could  _handle his ass._ _  
_

Instead of dwelling on the inappropriate thoughts swimming through his noggin, he leaned back in his chair and said, "No one's saying your 'messed up in the brain' everyone has their issues, which includes you."

Mickey shed his coat and stared at Ian, "Can't you just write in your little report thing, that I'm in top notch shape and don't require further sessions?"

Ian glanced at the wet file and pursed his lips, "Uh, no. You need to sort through this, it's unhealthy to keep this kind of shit bottled up." There he went with the swearing again. He'd probably slap himself later for being such an idiot.  Mickey glared at him, but didn't respond, due to his phone buzzing in his pant's pocket. He fished it out and answered, standing up and leaving the office.

Ian unabashedly stared at his butt as he left, which he would definitely scold himself for later, but enjoyed thoroughly in the moment.  He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, his eyelids drooping. He had to stay awake. It was bad enough that a patient walked in on him sleeping once, but for it to happen again, would just be ridiculous and completely unprofessional.  He frantically searched the room with his eyes, desperately trying to find something to distract him.  Lucky for him, Mickey was back in the blink of an eye, slamming the door behind him, which startled Ian into alertness.

Mickey grabbed his jacket and started for the door, "I'm just gonna go, I'll be at the next session." He hissed.  Ian stood up and rushed to the door, "Mickey, what happened?" Ian asked, trying to lure Mickey back into sitting down and even possibly sharing his feelings and thoughts.  

Mickey groaned, "Nothing, just let me leave." Ian was blocking the door at this point, still in his professional demeanor. "No. It's not good to keep this stuff inside, you need to talk about it."

"I've just got some shit to take care of. Now get the hell out of my way." He growled.  Ian yelped as Mickey shoved him away from the door, "Mickey, don't do anything rash! Think about your son!" That apparently struck a chord with the other man, because Mickey turned to face Ian, his expression furious, "Don't fucking talk about my son or whether or not I should do anything rash. It's none of your fucking business!"

Ian flinched as Mickey took a threatening step forward, but quickly recomposed himself. He was too tired for this shit, which was what he blamed it on when irrational anger bubbled in his gut, "You need to stop kidding yourself! For fuck's sake, man, you could lose your son! This isn't something you can just fuck around with!"

Mickey took a step back and scoffed. He combed a hand through his hair and shook his head disbelievingly, "Ya know what? Fuck you. Fuck this place. I don't need any of this shit. I'm out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far, it means a lot to us! We'll try to keep a regular schedule of updating on Friday evenings.  
> I hope the end of this chapter didn't feel rushed, because I was a little iffy on that part. Please leave us some feedback in the comments!  
> c:


	4. Man The Fuck Up

Mickey had a lot of shit on his plate as it was, so getting a call from an angry Kenyatta while at his therapy session, really didn't help the overall situation.  At least he knew what the fuck was going on with Mandy, but that kind of paled behind everything else.  Kenyatta wanted to know where Mandy was and when Mickey wouldn't say, the guy started threatening to hurt him, but what really threw Mickey over the edge, was when Kenyatta thought he could threaten Yev.  Mickey promptly hung up the call after those few words were uttered and immediately phoned Mandy, telling her to keep the doors locked and that he'd be home soon, for her to explain her shit.  Mickey was used to people saying they'd kill him or torture him or whatever stupid-ass thing they could come up with, but when his son was brought into it, there was no further discussion. If Mickey saw Kenyatta again, he'd kick the living daylights out of him. That's what the bastard deserved.

Mickey knew Mandy could handle herself, but when things got so bad, so  _violent,_ with Kenyatta, that she had to fucking move in with her brother, Mickey knew shit was serious.  He stomped home in his jacket, still fuming from the phone call and the argument that followed. He hadn't expected Ian to flip out on him like that. It was bizarre and annoyingly attractive. Mickey kind of wanted to smack himself just for thinking that.  Mickey wasn't sure if he should call Svetlana and tell her about the whole thing, but it was definitely something they could hold over him in court, which left him in a dilemma.  Yev was safe for now, Ken's words were pretty hollow to Mickey's ears, but he wasn't sure if he should risk it.  The couple already had an unfair advantage over him in the battle, so giving them more to dangle over his head, wasn't very appealing.

He decided to keep it to himself, he was pretty sure Kenyatta didn't know where they lived, anyway, and he was probably too dumb to figure it out. He shook off the rain from his coat and slipped his key out of his pocket. Mandy practically jumped ten feet when he walked through the door. "Some fucking warning next time?" She hissed, setting down the bat she had in her hands. Mickey scowled at her, "Yev's baseball bat, really?" He questioned, taking the "weapon" from the couch. A couple years ago, Yev joined a little league team. He was absolutely terrible and after a few short months, he quit the team. No surprise there.

Mickey placed it out of the way and shrugged off his jacket. "I guess you want an explanation?" Mandy said, biting her lip as she sat down on the couch. Mickey sighed and combed a hand through his hair, taking a place next to his sister.

"That'd be nice, yes."

There was a long pause before Mandy finally responded. "Well, things were on thin ice with Ken, I mean, he was pretty short-fused," she rubbed her neck, "Anyway, I had been thinking of ending things for a while, but it just never seemed like the right time and I didn't want to set him off." Her voice broke a little and Mickey found himself scooting closer, wrapping an arm around her. Nine years ago, he wouldn't have done something like that, but having and raising Yev, really changed him. He was still pretty distant from his emotions, but he'd learned to be more sympathetic, he had to in order to be an adequate father to his son.

"So, we got into this fight, it was about something stupid, I don't even remember, but it escalated so quickly. I couldn't even tell what was happening when he pulled the gun." She continued. Mickey stiffed. He felt like the worst brother in existence. His little sister was off with some guy who would pull a gun on her. What kind of sibling lets that happen?

She sighed and smiled weakly at Mickey, trying to placate the clear worry and anger he felt. "I managed to talk him down from the edge. I left as soon as I could after that. I didn't know where to go, so I just came here." She shrugged, biting her lip as she looked over to Mickey for a reaction.

He swallowed, his mouth dry, as his mind rapidly swam with thoughts. His first instinct was to go kill the guy, as it had been earlier. But, even though he was angry, he was more concerned now than he was before. He had to be rational and think about his son, which meant he couldn't go commit homicide. It wasn't safe though, just leaving things as they were. What would happen if Kenyatta showed up at his door, bursting in and finding Mandy's shit? Would he find Mandy and her hurt her? Would he get pissed at Mickey and find where Yev lived and do the unthinkable?

One thing was clear, Mandy wasn't safe there and her presence unintentionally posed a thread to Yev, which meant that Mandy had to be somewhere else. Iggy wasn't too far away, Kenyatta didn't know where he lived, plus, he still had more south side in him than the other two. He had guns stashed around his house, which wreaked of weed and as far as Mickey knew, the guy still did some drug runs. To conclude, he could kick someone's ass better than Mickey at the moment, meaning that Mandy was safer with him.

"Are you going to say something?" Mandy asked, knocking her shoulder against Mickey's, reeling in his attention. He cleared his throat, "Mands, I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let that happen."

Mandy looked shocked by the response, swiftly punching her brother in the arm, "You're such an egotistical narcissistic asshole!" She hissed. Mickey looked at her as if she were crazy.

"What the hell was that for? Why do I even bother to apologize?" He retorted, his voice coming out higher than he would have preferred.

"Not everything comes down to you, Mickey. This wasn't your fault! God, what is wrong with you?" She almost seemed angry, but the corners of her lips were tugging upwards, "How are we even related? You're so fucking stupid sometimes. Listen, man, you mess up a lot of shit and a lot of shit is your fault, but this isn't. What we need to deal with is right now, so forget all the stupid shit you just love blaming yourself for and turn on your brain."

Mickey spluttered, confused by his sister's outburst, until he settled down and looked her in the eye, "Okay."

 

-

 

The next day, Mickey was having lunch with his one and only friend, Carter.  Carter had been one of Mickey's first clients. The two found that they didn't despise the other's company and voila, a friendship was born. 

They sat at a small table outside of a diner, an umbrella shading them from the sun. Mickey would never not find it bizarre that the sun could be shining and it could still be fucking cold. His thumbs rubbed over the side of his mug of coffee as he explained his current predicament to his friend. "I've gotta tell her that she needs to move in with Iggy, but how the fuck am I supposed to do that?" He said with a heavy sigh. Carter was a good listener. He was in his early thirties and was wiser than most, probably because he'd had a pretty rough start, which sobered him up.

He nodded thoughtfully as Mickey continued, "And I got in a fucking argument with my therapist. How the hell does that even happen, aren't they supposed to be really calm, like Gandhi or some shit?" He combed a hand through his hair, "And I'm still gonna have to go in for another session. How am I supposed to put up with this shit? I don't even understand why I need to go to therapy!" Mickey was steadily growing more annoyed with each word he spoke, as he dramatically flopped against the back of his chair.

Carter leaned forward and sighed. He was a heavy set man, with stubble across his face. He had curly brown hair and stormy gray eyes. His voice was gravely as he said, "Listen, Mick. I'm gonna tell you something my old man told me; man the fuck up and stop whining."

Mickey knew he had been whining. He prided himself in being someone who didn't complain, he took care of the shit that needed taking care of, none of this pathetic babbling. But it was all just becoming a bit overwhelming. After all, he had to find a lawyer for Mandy. He hadn't suggested the idea to her yet, but he thought they should take legal action against Kenyatta. Mickey was an adult now, he had a son, he was mature. Which meant dealing with this matter in a better way than with a baseball bat and some shovels.

He didn't reply to Carter, he just chewed his lip and stared at the other man. "Mick, you have a chance to keep your son. All you need to do is go to a few measly therapy sessions. Suck it up and deal with it. Some people would kill to have that opportunity."

A pang of guilt hit Mickey in the chest. There he was, complaining about the stupid sessions he had to go to in order to keep his son, when Carter had lost his daughter years prier. Carter was in a car accident a few years back. He was drunk and driving his daughter to her mother's house after a weekend visit. He collided with a minivan, killing the teenage driver and seriously injuring the kid in the backseat.  Carter had been rushed to a hospital, alongside his daughter, Lily, where his leg was amputated and Lily fell into coma.

Lily passed away a week later and Carter was sued by the other people's family.  Ever since then, the guy had been clean, no more drugs or alcohol. He'd bought a decent apartment and started new, working at a repair shop. "Listen, man. I'm sorry. This was a dick thing to be complaining about." Mickey sighed, combing a hand through his hair.

"All I'm sayin', Mick, is he's your son. Do what needs to be done. For him. You honestly believe this kid is better off with you?" He didn't sound condescending or angry, which Mickey appreciated.

He nodded, "Yeah, of course. Yev shouldn't be around those fuckers. Sure Dick's rich but I'm pretty sure the guy's into some underground shit," Mickey rubbed a hand over his eyes, "Or maybe that's just wishful thinking. I dunno anymore."

"You bein' willing to fight for him is testament enough in my book. I know you're a good guy, but no kid deserves to be with a parent that won't fight for 'em." Carter took a sip of his coffee, "Just go to that therapy place tomorrow, on your lunch break or whatever, and flesh this shit out. You got in an argument with this Ian guy? Then figure out if ya need to switch therapists or if the two of you can move passed this." He shrugged nonchalantly.

Mickey licked his lips and bobbed his head in agreement as Carter spoke, "Yeah. You're right. I'll head over tomorrow and get this shit sorted. Ain't nobody takin' my son away from me. Even if it means I have to deal with a dickhead of a therapist."

Carter grinned, "That's what I like to hear."

 

- 

 

Ian was about to take his lunch break. That's what he'd been telling himself for the past half hour. It was a slow day, not many appointments, but holy crap on a popsicle stick, he had a shit tonne of paperwork to fill out. Ian was scribbling away, his head clouded with a million thoughts, when he heard a sharp knock on the door. He glanced upward for only a moment, before delving back into his mountain of work, "Come in." He called, worrying his lip.

A moment passed before the person cleared their throat intentionally, grasping Ian's attention. He abruptly stopped writing and his head jerked upward, to land on none other than Mickey Milkovich in all his glory. The stupid soppy look he had on his face, distinctly reminded Ian of a puppy, maybe a husky?  "What can I help you with Mr. Milkovich?"

The man fidgeted and walked closer to his desk, "I think we should talk, ya know, about that whole thing that happened the other day."

Ian couldn't help but grin and raise his eyebrows in question. This really wasn't something he had expected. He thought the Milkovich was going to stay in his shell of stubbornness and trust issues forever. "We could've just done that at your next session." Ian pointed out, still grinning like a maniac. He had regretted his sleep deprived decision of fighting with Mickey, but clearly it helped with some kind of breakthrough.

"Right, yeah. That's probably a good idea. I'll just uh, get out of your hair." Mickey flexed his fingers and then rubbed the back of his neck before heading toward the door.

"Or we could talk about it over my lunch break. Don't worry, it'll be free of charge." Ian stood up and grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. Mickey turned around, "Sure, yeah. Let's do that." He agreed.

Ian slid on his jacket and followed the other man out of the door. Amora was leaning against the desk, talking to Gunnar enthusiastically, her hands flailing about as she told a vivid story. The two burst out laughing before noticing Ian standing before them. "Look who finally emerged." Amora said, poking Ian in the shoulder, "Thought I was gonna have to force feed you. Go all mama-bear or some shit."

"Well, don't worry, I'm going to lunch. Hold my calls for me, Gunnar." Ian nodded toward the receptionist who saluted him and gave him the most pathetic and love-stricken look Ian had ever seen. "See ya, guys."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What am I? Chopped liver? You're not even going to ask if I want to tag along? What kind of best friend are you?" Amora said, wagging her finger.

"Sorry, I'm already going with someone."

Amora smiled and wiggled her eyebrows, "Hot date?" Ian saw Gunnar flinch from the corner of his eye.

"Client." Ian corrected, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. Amora and Gunnar peered into the waiting room, where Mickey was standing by the door, waiting for Ian with his hands shoved in his pockets, pointedly not looking at the desk. 

"Ooh, hot client. Mind if I jump on that wagon?"

Ian scrunched his nose, "Is your mind ever not in the gutter?"

Amora shrugged and didn't peel her gaze away from Mickey, "A girl wants what a girl wants."

"Well, I'm starving. Meet you for coffee after work." Ian said, turning around and walking down the small step into the waiting room. "Go get 'em, tiger!" Amora yelled. He cringed and ignored her, ushering Mickey out of the office. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extremely long wait, but we changed plans for this chapter rather abruptly and had to map it out all over again. I'll just post the next one as soon as possible instead of waiting for Friday, because we sort of owe you guys now.


End file.
